I went to the Oregon Coast recently on a backpacking trip with six other club members. The coast is pleasant in summer with cool nights and days, an evening campfire welcome, and one sleeps comfortably, without the bugs at the higher elevations, where there might not be any wind and may be a good deal hotter.
The youngest on the trip was 50, the oldest 72. We share a love of the woods and backpacking, but we had very different personalities. One disappeared for most of the trip, hiking early and alone. We saw him the second day out, hiking back from a place where we were going to. That afternoon he disappeared into the woods reading, and he was gone the next morning when I got up. I am a morning person, but other than that one individual, the rest were not, so I did some early morning solo walking on the beach, but I stayed in camp when the others were there, and during a lot of the campfire time, listened.
My tracks on the beach north of Blacklock Point.
It’s good to listen long and hard to others. I ought to do more of it. I forget people’s names, or how to pronounce some of them, so if I listen long enough, I often avoid the embarrassment of asking someone’s name, which I should have learned but didn’t, or how they say it. If I am especially lucky, I learn how to pronounce some of the natural landmarks from long time residents, so I don’t mangle the pronunciation myself. While others are talking, I learn about ages, past jobs, families, marriages, divorces, kids, philosophy, and a whole host of things I would never ask, because I generally don’t like to ask people about personal matters. Listening is great: people like someone with whom they can talk, and I get a lot of free information. I just have to keep my own mouth shut, and that often isn’t easy.
I also learn how organized people are by how they deal with campfires. Some like to have every piece of wood in the right place, and are constantly in motion making sure such happens. Others just let the fire burn where it burns and don’t involve themselves in it at all. I’m in the middle, tossing an occasional pine cone in, trying to get it to one exact spot. I need a lot of pine cones.
The woods itself teaches me much every time I go into it. Too many in the club think all I do is hike as fast as I can without seeing anything. I don’t try to convince them otherwise; I won’t. I’m too old to make the effort, and I’ve long known that the only person I can likely change is myself, and that hasn’t been easy. Lately, I have been interested in wildflowers, and I get to see some that I can take a picture of and look them up back home. I watch the Moon in daytime, when it is visible. I look at its angle with the horizon, the phase, and notice how dim it gets near the horizon, eastern horizon if it is rising before full, western if it is setting after full.
What surprised me the most this particular trip were the spider webs. Yes, spider webs. It was quite by accident I even noticed them. I was making a simple breakfast and happened to look up to the east, where the morning sun sent its beams through a the forest of red pines and Sitka spruce. That was worthy of a picture, but instead of pulling out the camera, I kept looking. What really struck me were the number of webs, complete ones, ones with just one strand, a strand 25 feet up in the air, several at near ground level. I realized how many I destroy when I walk through the woods. I understand how dangerous these webs are for small flying insects. Mind you, there have always been spider webs in the woods, and I have long noted the beautiful ones with dew on them, but I never had fully appreciated the sheer number of spiders in the woods. At 68, that is shameful. On the other hand, at least it wasn’t when I was 69, 79, or never. Kind of makes me wonder briefly what else I am missing. I’m sure someone in the club will tell me.
On the other hand, I bet they don’t know what the phase of the Moon is and why it is angled the way it is to the horizon, either. Maybe some night I will explain it to them, by a campfire.
“Ross Light”, the special light, at sunset. It is the name Sig Olson, the great 20th century wilderness writer, gave to that time when photography was the best.
Looking south from Blacklock Point, Oregon Coast. At the far right center is the Cape Blanco Lighthouse.
Wildflowers, Blacklock Point, Oregon Coast.
Tags: General writing, Outdoor writing, Philosophy
Boreal B[l]og 
July 18, 2017 at 21:02 |
Good to have a group that is comfortable to cater for individual preferences. That’s how it should be, but so many people need the herd mentality of sticking close.
Communing with nature can be enriching in such broad terms as you know.
I find it fascinating the way spider hatchlings take to the air with their one strand of silk and travel to wherever the winds take them. From my bed in summer I can see the massive Moreton Bay fig tree glistening in the sunrise with a myriad of sparkling webs.